


from sun to shade

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Angst, Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Community: ante_up_losers, Interracial Relationship, M/M, POV Male Character, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These aren't the sexy, Lestat-looking vampires. Jensen would prefer those. They'd be a lot easier to kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from sun to shade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aloneindarknes7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloneindarknes7/gifts).



> Thanks a bunch to [](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lunesque**](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/) for the beta.
> 
> David Wellington's take on vampires in his series of books _Thirteen Bullets_ , _99 Coffins_ , and _Vampire Zero_ was the inspiration for the vampires that the team faces off against in this fic.

"Mother _fuck_." Cougar's been bitten, and Jensen knows what that means. The entire fucking team _knows_ without one sliver of doubt what that _means_.

Jensen gasps when his already bruised shoulder hits the wall, pushed and held in place by Roque. It forces Jensen's brain to jar loose, forces him to let go of the anger and the string of curses that are buzzing in his head like cliche-religious-movie-horror bugs.

"Okay," he says. It's the only response he's allowed to give in these situations; Roque's not gonna let him up otherwise. SOP. They all have to stay calm in order to stay alive. "I'm cool."

"Good." Roque doesn't let go immediately. He waits a beat, catches Jensen's eye, and then backs away. "We have to move. You're on our 6."

Jensen wants to argue against that. He wants to shout. He wants to shoot everything that moves, but he nods again instead. "Got it."

He carefully doesn't look at Cougar. Specifically, he doesn't look at the blood soaking through the rag that Roque's got wrapped around Cougar's neck. Except now that his thoughts have gone there, he almost can't stop staring. Roque hefts Cougar up in a fireman's carry, and Cougar barely twitches. Jensen is ruthlessly not thinking about it and focuses on watching their backs, making sure the bloodsuckers are permanently dead and not just pretending.

When they're clear, Clay says, "Burn it," and helps get Cougar strapped in the van.

Roque tosses Jensen the detonator, but pushing the button isn't nearly as satisfying as pulling the trigger. The eruption of fire and smoke, though, makes a nice display. Jensen's not a sharpshooter — it's the entire reason Cougs is on the team — but he manages to pick off the bastards that run screeching from the building.

~*~

Jensen refuses to ask, "How bad is it?"

It's Pooch who does the honors, staring out the window, even though the sun is as high as it's going to be in the sky. No one answers him.

"Get some rest," Roque says, and fuck. That's bad; that's terminal; that's do not go gentle into that good night, and Jensen squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. He's got to find better reading material.

"How bad?" he asks, wishing like hell his voice didn't sound so hoarse, but there's no takebacks in a situation like this.

Everyone's silent too long, and Jensen lifts his head, wondering if Roque's going to be asshole enough to make him repeat the question. What Roque's doing is wearing is 'how to put this gently' face. It's the expression he had when they'd lost Robbie and Jen and a van full of kids.

Jensen drops his feet to the floor, boots landing with a thud on the hardwood. When he sees Pooch flinch and shoot a glance his way, it's almost enough to trigger his own fight-or-flight response.

"If it's gonna be anyone—" He's not trying to get choked up about this, but his throat seals tight and now he's starting to get the shakes.

Roque forces Jensen back onto the couch, says, "It's not going to be anyone. Both of you should get some shut eye."

"Because time is short." It's a quip delivered on autopilot, and Jensen is about to start laughing and never stop.

He gets the couch by virtue of the fact that Roque's not letting him go anywhere else. The bastard even steals his glasses and squirrels them away, which seems dangerous given their current situation, but Jensen curls up on the couch, shuts his eyes, and tries really damn hard not to think about anything, so of course, he thinks about everything, none of which actually help him sleep.

~*~

Whispering is the first thing Jensen wakes up to. That, a crick in his neck, and cotton mouth. He sits up and looks to his left, squinting to make out the vague blob-like shape of what he thinks are Roque and Clay.

"Glasses?"

"On the table in front of you."

Jensen slips them on and rakes his fingers through his hair. Clay and Roque stare at him but don't give him any news.

His throat clicks when he swallows. "So what's the prognosis?"

"Don't know yet."

Jensen _does not_ flinch when Clay slaps the mag into his rifle. Jensen reaches under the couch for his own piece. He checks the clip — locked and loaded — and then stands.

"Jensen," Clay says.

He flicks off the safety as he heads to the door. "I'll let you know."

The door creaks, because they're superstitious enough to believe that a creaking door is as good as the alarm system they have set up around the perimeter. More than that, Jensen knows that they've been conditioned to be wary of anything that's too quiet, door included.

Cougar is too quiet, laying still on the bed. There's not enough light for Jensen to get a good look at him, but Jensen's not ready to flip the switch or try the lamp beside the bed. He wants five minutes.

"Don't wait," Cougar rasps, and Jensen nearly jumps out of his boots. "Rule number—"

"Fuck the rules," Jensen says, hoarse, and crosses the room.

The light from the lamp casts enough light for Jensen to see Cougar's smirk, but the smirk lasts only 'til Cougar falls back to the mattress.

"Come on, Cougs." Jensen sits on the bed, grabbing Cougar's hand, squeezing it like that'll be enough when he knows it won't be if— It just won't be.

"Bitten." Cougar opens his eyes, and they're glazed and bloodshot. "Felt the teeth."

"That doesn't mean—" Jensen takes a sharp breath through his nose, swallows down the panic. "You still have a chance. Not everyone turns."

"No." Cougar's fingers spasm, and Jensen holds on more tightly. "The rest die."

"Don't—"

"What time is it?"

Jensen would laugh, but whatever's trying to punch through his chest feels too damn wild to be let loose. "Good deflection," because he's always going to call Cougar on that shit. "It's dark."

"More hunting to do."

"We need a badass sniper."

But Cougar's given as much as he can and doesn't respond. Jensen holds Cougar's hand to his forehead and breathes steady and slow. Then he calmly sets Cougar's hand down, pats it one last time like that's going to make the difference. He's making himself vulnerable, but he doesn't have a choice. He's not going to— Not unless he's _damn certain_ —

So he reaches across Cougar and presses two fingers to the uninjured side of his neck, holding his breath, eyes squeezed shut and the gun in his hand squeezed even tighter.

Yes. Fuck _yes_. There's a pulse. Faint, weak — but there's a living, _human_ pulse that beats against Jensen's fingertips.

Energized with this small victory, Jensen starts doing the dumb, silly, domestic stuff — tucks the blankets around Cougar's shoulders, checks the bandage, even fluffs the flat pillows like that'll make them more comfortable.

The team is outside the door in various states of readiness. Jensen can't blame them. Sentimentality is the thing that gets them killed the fastest, but— They understand. They've all been at this for too long not to make attachments.

"He's good," Jensen breathes out, and saying it, just saying it, makes his knees nearly give.

It's Roque who has a glass of water and steers Jensen to the couch while Clay — can't really blame him — heads into the room.

"I think he's gonna make it," Jensen says after a slow sip, and lifts his head, looks at Pooch, who just happens to be the person in front of him. "I think—"

Pooch nods, even offers up one of those hopeful smiles that they all get sometimes. "We all are, man."


End file.
